Big Girl
by SimoneGladstone
Summary: Sherlock & John are asked for help by a pop star with an apparently boring case that will confront them with Sherlock's past and his cousin's favourite poet... 'Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux, Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux[...]' Les fleurs du mal - Baudelaire


Chapter One – The Old Man Who Smoked A Pipe

Molly jumped when the door slammed open behind her. She turned around but knew perfectly well it couldn't be anyone else but Sherlock. The man was walking quickly towards her – or more exactly the body she had just unwrapped especially for him.

'Good morning!' She said cheerfully, not expecting any answer whatsoever.

Indeed, the detective walked past her without a second glance and was already getting his magnifying glass. John, however, wasn't far behind and greeted her with a nod and a genuine smile. Molly liked John, it was nice to have someone to exchange knowing glances with when Sherlock was observing or babbling his deductions.

The doctor settled down at the opposite end of the morgue table and watched his friend work. Sherlock, coat swirling, straightened up and turned to him.

'John, what do you think?'

Frowning, John approached and focused on the corpse.

'Man, in his sixties, beaten to death... Traces of tobacco on his moustache but not on his fingers so he probably smoked... A pipe?'

Sherlock's lips curved upwards.

'Good.' He purred. 'Go on.'

'Err... Well there are older bruises other than those that killed him, maybe because of a dangerous profession or... Bad habits? He looks in tip-top shape otherwise after all...'

The doctor hesitated, walking around the table to look more closely at the man's hands.

'No scratches, no skin under the nails – that's strange - and...'

He stopped again, taking the corpse in a last time, and sighed.

'That's all I can gather right now.'

He eyed the consulting detective quizzically.

'Not bad John, you're getting better.'

The features of the fair-haired man softened with the praise. Molly was feeling more and more like she should give them some privacy.

'Let me guess' John chuckled 'I said everything but the important stuff?'

'Well, the fact that this man smoked a pipe was indeed perfectly irrelevant. However, the lack of scratches and of skin under his nails is quite revealing, as you could easily deduce yourself : He was beaten to death, and it took a certain amount of blows to incapacitate him, therefore he had the possibility to defend himself. But he didn't : Not only did he know his murderer, but he also resented the idea of hitting him... Or her.'

John looked up at him and cocked his head with a slight smile.

'You already know who did it don't you?'

But Sherlock wasn't done.

'His wedding ring : clean, recent despite his age. Traces of foundation cream on some of the bruises. Arms, face, exposed surfaces, and surprisingly just the right shade. It was his, then, and not his wife's, who is a young Swedish woman and, as such, much paler than he was.'

He stretched his arm to dramatically retrieve a small brownish bottle from an evidence bag and present it to his micro-assistance.

'And of course this was found in their shared bathroom. Nearly empty : He was obviously used to hiding what were in fact the traces of-'

'Spouse violence.' John breathed, dumbstruck.

His friend treated him with a proud smile but the doctor was too astonished to acknowledge it.

'But why?'

'Obvious : Married for two years or so, the man is head over heels but she is there only for his money, of course. However the report about her states that she was until then working quite hard for her living so : Clearly torn between the desire to take advantage of her new financial ease and her uncomfortable dependant situation, she suffered from a serious inferiority complex and found in this regular beating another kind of power over her partner, who was in love enough not to hit back or denounce her.'

Silence fell when he finished his speech.

Molly looked at the two men before her, staring at each other, one with pride, the other with utter admiration, and decided she'd better be off. She heard John's chuckle in his voice when she was closing the door behind her.

'Amazing!'

She shook her head with a smile. These two always managed to brighten her day when they visited.

Two hours later, both men were climbing up the stairs to their flat, having called Lestrade to tell him the case was solved, and only meeting his voicemail, saying he was on vacation and giving the number of his substitute for the fortnight. Sherlock had sulked and mumbled about how dull the idea of going on vacations was, but had finally called the other number, helped by a final outburst of John's exasperation. The other DI, however, was not Lestrade, not even Dimmock, and after the detective had explained who – and how indispensable – he was in two short sentences, he still had to explain, with a flourish of snapping insults about the man's brain, that, indeed, spouse violence from a woman existed and was actually more frequent than he seemed to think (and that 'You should be aware of that kind of data if you intend to doing your job at least as well as a 6-year-old could.')

Sherlock was now in an execrable mood as he shrugged out of his coat and flopped somehow gracefully onto the sofa.

John sighed and made himself busy by making tea. The madman had woken him up at an impossible hour and he hadn't even had the time to have his morning cup. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't drink, or do anything, for that matter, but he made two out of habit. He glanced behind his back at the man sprawled on the sofa, sulking for all it was worth and most certainly blaming everybody for being so annoying and stupid. He couldn't quite stifle a fond smile at the sight. As much as the man was an insufferable spoiled brat, he was his best friend, and he definitely couldn't imagine his life without his company anymore.

An hour and a half passed like this in silence. Sherlock's cup had grown cold on the coffee table next to his lying figure, hands joined on his lips as if in prayer, and John was settled in his chair with his laptop, when they both heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by a light knock on the door and a familiar voice.

'Yooh-ooh! Boys! The bell is still broken, I won't call someone for you this time! And this charming young man who wants to talk to-'

Sherlock stood abruptly, cutting her with a dismissive hand, and John suddenly felt a bit relieved. A client was welcome indeed, even if he had learned to live with the sulking and muttering and pacing by now, it was nice to have it interrupted.

'Let's hope this one isn't boring.' He mumbled as he stood, putting his laptop aside.

He moved to join Sherlock in the hall but soon frowned at the sight his friend was offering : Standing perfectly still, eyes focused and analysing more than was usually necessary, nearly astonished. The doctor, curious and slightly worried, pressed the pace to see who was at their door.


End file.
